


To Treat A Tummyache

by MDJensen



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Gen, Sickfic, Steve gets Danny cuddles, and also hot water bottle cuddles, but not as dark as a lot of my sick Steve fics, discussion of chronic illness, post-transplant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 21:32:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18455024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: Steve's feeling sick at work; Danny takes him home. Set a few months post-transplant.





	To Treat A Tummyache

Some time in the last six years, Danny has learned to read Steve McGarrett: something he once thought impossible, something that should earn him some sort of commendation. And the thing is, he’s good at it.

Steve does nothing blatant, and leaving the room for a minute is something that anybody might need to do. But he’s dragging a little when he comes back. Combined with the way he’s sitting—protecting his middle, almost like an animal—Danny doesn’t even have to wait for him to leave a second time before he knows that something’s up.

Still he does, for courtesy’s sake. But the moment Steve ambles back into the office, Danny turns the monitor off with one definitive click.

“You don’t look so good.”

Steve just blinks, and turns the monitor back on.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Why’re you pressing?” Steve asks, pulling a face.

“Eh. Just, you’re lookin’ a little pale there.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well. I mean, my stomach’s a little upset.”

“Stomach’s upset? So go home.”

“I don’t need to go home.”

“If you’re sick—“

“I’m not sick, Danny!” Steve’s irritated enough that he’s waving his hands, something Danny would normally be pleased by.

He’s not pleased by it.

Steve was cleared to return over two months ago, and by all medical accounts he’s doing well; most of the scary crap that Danny’s read about transplant patients happened to people who were already sick, or so Steve assures him. Yeah, recovery was rough. And yeah there’s side effects of the immunosuppressants, and they haven’t gotten the balance quite right yet. But he’s _fine_.

_Or so Steve assures him._

But right now Steve doesn’t look fine; he doesn’t look deathly ill, mind you, but he does look sick. Pale and sweaty and altogether crappy (no pun intended).

And he’s got to be feeling pretty sick, too, because Danny doesn’t even have to argue; half a minute’s worth of glaring has been enough, and Steve sighs, and wilts a little in his chair.

“It’s just the latest,” he says, shrugging with one shoulder. “I told my doctor about how I’ve been, y’know—about being nauseous. So he fiddled around with my meds.”

“What, he flipped the switch so—it all comes out the other end instead?”

“Don’t laugh at me, man,” Steve groans, and scrubs his face. “It’s been less than two days since I started the new doses and I swear to god, I have shit like, thirty times since then.”

“Oh my god,” Danny says. "I just got sympathy pains, in my own ass. Okay. You’re going home.”

“It’s not gonna make a difference—”

Danny holds up a hand. “Steven. I know social graces aren’t really your thing. But I have got to tell you that most people, as a basic courtesy, isolate themselves when they’re having that much diarrhea.”

And it’s at that moment that Danny knows he’s won. Because rather than flip him off, or even start in on the _but-I’m-not-contagious_ argument, Steve just sighs again. Hauls himself to his feet, and lets Danny all but frog-march him from the office.

In the bullpen, Kono and Grover are nowhere to be seen, but Chin’s in his office, visible through the glass walls. Danny knocks, then cracks open the door.

“Yo!”

“Hm?”

“I’m takin’ Steve home,” Danny announces. “His stomach’s no good.”

Chin, as expected, takes this with minimal reaction: tells Steve to feel better then turns back to his computer. And that’s it; there’s no case right now. So they just head out.

In the parking lot Steve goes obediently to the Camaro—then holds his hand out for the keys, which makes Danny laugh. Why exactly did Steve think he was tagging along, if not to drive? But he says as much, and Steve pulls a face.

“’m already feelin’ bad enough, man. I don’t wanna get carsick, too.”

But out of the office, away from where the team might see, Steve looks worse—which, to Steve, would probably support his own conclusion, but to Danny is just more evidence that Steve needs to rest. And maybe, possibly, let himself be just a little taken-care-of.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Danny tells him, displaying the keys. “I’ll drive nice. And if you ask to pull over and switch, I will not argue. Deal?”

Rather than respond, Steve just gets in, shotgun.

Danny keeps his word: he drives nice. Accelerates smoothly and sticks to the speed limit, though it goes against his Jersey instincts, and the sporty pull of the car—and the urge to get Steve home as quickly as possible. A minute in, Steve closes his eyes. Which Danny takes to be a good sign, because he knows by now that Steve stares, unblinking, out the windshield, if he’s starting to feel queasy. Maybe Steve can even grab a quick car nap; it couldn’t hurt. But just as Danny’s congratulating himself for winning again, Steve groans, and his eyes peel open.

“Hey, pull in there, please?” he grunts, gesturing to an upcoming Burger King. “Sorry,” he adds, probably finishing off his entire manners quota for the week.

“I said I wouldn’t argue. I won’t.”

“No, I,” Steve mumbles, as Danny pulls them into a parking spot. “I gotta use the bathroom, man. Hey, can you do me a favor, can you buy something?”

It’s possibly something to contemplate, at a later time, that Steve McGarrett is willing to break pretty much any law there is but is not willing to use fast food facilities without making a purchase. But for now Danny’s too upset to find it funny. Instead he trails Steve through the glass doors, stands in line and orders himself a small coffee while Steve, presumably, explodes the men’s room toilet.

He’s just gotten his coffee when Steve returns. His face is bright red; Danny wonders idly if it’s from effort or embarrassment, but of course he doesn’t ask. At the car, Steve waves away the keys, and curls up unhappily in the passenger’s seat.

There’s no more incidents for the rest of the drive. Soon they’re pulling up in front of Steve’s house, and Danny leaves his crappy token-purchase coffee in the cupholder as he follows Steve inside.

He doesn’t say a word as Steve toes off his shoes. Still nothing as Steve strips off his gun, badge, and belt, and lowers himself gingerly onto the couch. It’s not that there’s nothing to say. Just, they’ve had this conversation a dozen times, and every time feels like they’re starting from scratch.

Danny’s fresh out of novel approaches.

Steve’s lying down by now, and Danny perches by his feet. “Hey.”

“What?”

“Do you, uh. Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

“About the, uh, the literally life changing event that happened to you like a few months ago?”

Steve takes a deep breath, like he’s maybe going to reply, then lets it gust out in a single word: “no.”

It’s unsurprising.

“Well, give me something to do, even if it’s not listen.”

“You don’t need to do anything, Danno. Thanks for the lift, just don’t forget to get me in the morning.”

“I don’t wanna leave.” Danny sinks heavily over his own knees, too tired to give anything but the naked truth. “You’re sick, and I want to help.”

“You wanna help?”

“Obviously.”

“Okay.” Danny glances up in time to see Steve’s nose wrinkle a little. “You could get me a hot water bottle.”

“Oh.” That’s actually kind of— kind of endearing, and simultaneously kind of stunning. “Okay. They sell those at, like, CVS, I guess—?”

“No, I have one.”

“You have a hot water bottle? Are you ninety?”

Steve glowers a little, gestures vaguely at his abdomen.

“Ah. Right. Where is it, then?”

“Medicine cabinet, in the downstairs bathroom.”

Danny nods, and struggles to his feet. In the kitchen, he fills a glass with cold water before putting the tap on its hottest; he leaves it to run as he goes to the bathroom, and finds the rubber bottle. The water’s hot when he returns. So he fills and closes the bottle carefully, and brings it and the glass back to the living room.

Steve sits, albeit grudgingly, and drinks his water. Then he takes the water bottle and lies back down, sighing sharply in relief as he presses it to his belly and folds around it.

All of this has ended with Steve’s feet in Danny’s lap. Normally he’d bitch about it, but for now he just toys with a loose seam on one of Steve’s socks. The weight is warm and familiar (and honestly not that smelly). In fact Danny startles a little, when Steve pulls his feet away a few minutes later and disappears up the stairs without comment.

To give him a little more privacy, Danny goes back into the kitchen. He tops off Steve’s glass and replaces the still-pretty-hot water in the bottle, then gets back to the couch just as Steve’s coming down the stairs.

He’s finally given in, it seems, to his sick day. His work clothes are gone, replaced by a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, and he’s carrying a comforter and pillow that Danny recognizes from the guest room.

It’s an unremarkable image, but one Danny knows he’ll remember for a long time.

Danny settles back on the couch, ready to resume his footrest duties; instead of lying down again, though, Steve sits, so close to Danny that their shoulders bump. He wraps himself in the blanket, and snags back his water bottle.

And even though Steve’s a grown man, and even though his current state is obvious, Danny can’t stop himself crooning a little. “Still feelin’ crummy, huh?”

“That’s,” Steve says, thickly, “one word for it.”

“You sure you don’t wanna talk?”

“What’s there to say, man?” Steve sighs, resignedly. “I just need t’rest. You don’t have to stay.”

“How hard is it to understand that I’m _choosing_ to stay?”

“Yeah, but you don’t _have_ to—”

“You know, I wish you were smart enough to realize that we’d both feel better if you _gave me something to do!_ ”

That gets through. Steve frowns, goes still.

“Please?" Danny adds, pitching his voice back down. "I won’t say please again.”

Steve unfreezes and blinks up at him with his big hazel eyes; it’s one of those moments that Danny can actually see him run things through with an imaginary therapist before saying them aloud. He’s—trying. He’s actually trying so damn hard, Danny realizes, and resolves to give him a bit more credit than he’s been giving.

“You could,” Steve says, hoarsely, “you could rub my back?”

Aw, jeez.

Danny says nothing. Just gets himself in a good position to move his arm, and starts making long, slow strokes with his palm, up and down Steve’s back. Steve shudders. Then he tips further forward, curling around his hot water bottle and giving Danny better access to the length of his spine.

And it helps. It does. Danny himself feels a lot less useless, and Steve’s muscles, beneath his fingers, feel a lot less tense.

But Danny, as established, can read his partner. He can actually read him pretty damn well, and though Steve doesn’t often need to talk things out, when he does, Danny knows it. He can feel it, as jelly-like tension in the air.

“Steve,” he says, pausing his hand for just an instant. “Babe. Talk.”

Nothing.

“I’m not kidding. Steve, if you can’t talk about this now, when can you?”

“ _Danny_.”

“Come on. You’ll feel better.”

Steve turns his head, and those big warm eyes peer up at Danny once again. “That’s not how—”

“Would you try it? For me?”

Steve blows a big gust of air out through his nose and says, evenly, “I feel like crap.”

“Wow.”

“Wow what?”

“Even complaining you’re stoic as hell. Put your back into it, babe.”

“I feel like shit.”

Still emotionless, nearly toneless.

“Steve—”

“Okay. Okay. My stomach really hurts, Danno,” Steve mumbles. “ _Really_ hurts. You happy now?”

“Depends. You feel better?”

“Fuck off,” Steve grouches. But he’s not immune to the great human truth that honesty flows a little more freely when you’re tired or sick, already off-guard; and after a few seconds he slumps forward again. “For your information, I do _not_ feel better. My stomach hurts, my ass hurts, I think I’m liquefying organs in there or something because I don’t know how I could possibly have anything left to shit, and I know I have to stay hydrated but since I drank that water, I’m nauseous too. And there’s nothing better than both ends at once.”

“Well fuck,” Danny says, quietly.

“Well, you fucking asked,” Steve snaps, and his voice cracks, just a little.

A fresh wave of cramps hits. Danny knows because Steve tries to fold up further on himself; instead of allowing this, Danny nudges him closer with a hand on his hip, gets Steve to curl up against him instead. Steve does so without protest. His friend’s face to his own chest now, Danny feels the warmth of breath as Steve laughs quietly.

“What?”

“This sucks, Danno.”

“I know.”

“I’m just.”

He stops. Danny tries to keep tempo as he rubs up and down Steve’s back, tries not to betray how the words have startled him. He doesn’t want Steve to stop there.

“I’m just not used to not being healthy,” Steve admits, finally. He turns his head to the side, but doesn’t pull away. “I mean, I’ve been knocked around before, but it’s always had— I mean, there’s always been an end in sight, y’know? Break your arm, the cast is gonna come off. Catch the flu, two weeks tops and you’re back to normal. Even the malaria—”

“You had malaria?”

“Strictly speaking, once you have malaria, you always do.”

Danny groans.

“Even the malaria only hits me once in a blue moon now. But this is like— every day, man. Every day. For four months I have not had a single day I didn’t throw up or get the shits or feel like— awful. Achy, weak. There hasn’t been a single day without something. And this is gonna last— forever?”

Danny presses his face to Steve’s hair, speaks into it quietly. “It’ll get better. They’ll balance your meds soon.”

“I’m tired,” Steve whispers. “Four months in an’ I’m already tired.”

“Just a bad day, babe,” Danny murmurs, stroking his hair, praying that that’s true. “Just a bad day."

"Yeah. I guess."

"Yeah." Danny forces one measured inhale/exhale. "You wanna take a hot bath?”

“No.”

“You want get in bed? So you can lie down?”

The reply is so soft that Danny barely hears it.

“I’d rather the company,” Steve murmurs.

“Okay. Here, hang on.”

The pillow Steve brought from the guest room has fallen to the floor; Danny snags it and positions it in his lap. And Steve, for his part, doesn’t argue in the slightest. Just curls up on his side, head in Danny’s lap, and clutches the water bottle to his stomach while Danny gets the comforter spread over him evenly. And honestly, he finds himself completely comfortable with it all. It’s not like this is his first time, offering cuddles to treat a tummyache.

“You okay like this?”

“Mm.”

“’kay. Hey, see if you can sleep a little.”

“C’n’t fall ‘sleep on you. Y’gotta go back.”

“Nah,” Danny murmurs. “Gotta stay right here.”

Steve’s eyes flick upwards, and Danny recognizes his _won’t-cry-but-could-if-I-wanted-to_ look. It’s almost familiar now. At least this time it seems less miserable, more— touched.

 _Touched_ isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Y’re,” Steve starts, then pauses and swallows thickly. “You’re great. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I mean it. Y’re the best.”

“Okay, you mean it! You are not just saying that so I’m more sympathetic when you puke in my lap.”

“Both,” Steve mumbles, nuzzling a little.

With one last nod to pragmatics, Danny texts Chin that he’s taking the rest of the day too. Then he settles in, leans back against the couch. Reaches down to pet Steve’s hair, but Steve turns his head and Danny misses, strokes his face, feeling breath and eyelashes. “Sorry.”

“’sokay,” Steve mumbles. “Don’t mind.”

“Jeez,” Danny gets out, and suddenly he’s the one at risk of tears. “You don’t mind. Of course you don’t mind, you’re a fucking lap cat.”

“C’rrect.”

“Go to sleep, please. I mean it. You need rest.”

By way of reply, Steve just hums, and tosses his head not-so-subtly. Danny sighs. Runs the back of his hand down the side of Steve’s face a few more times before he goes back to stroking Steve’s hair.

“Go the hell to sleep, Steven,” Danny murmurs. The rhythm of his arm is making him drowsy now, too. “Please go to sleep? You’ll feel better when you wake up; I promise.”

He can only hope that it's true.

**Author's Note:**

> Took a few hours out from my busy schedule of adoring Jerry Ortega to adore these two instead.
> 
> In my mind, Steve was in a weird sort of limbo post-transplant but pre-radiation. I don't think he really viewed himself as someone with Real Health Concerns, but that being said, he was obviously experiencing a lot of physical symptoms. He ignored them when he could and dealt with them on a mostly superficial level when he couldn't, with only brief episodes of actual emotion over them. So this is what I picture one of these brief episodes to look like.
> 
> But of course this is all just speculation because the writers pick and choose the stuff they actually bother acknowledging.


End file.
